A logical mind
by EmperorOfMeaninglessScribbles
Summary: Lord Voldemort always congratulated himself to be the most logical being he ever met in his whole life. He always found an answer to everything. A clear cut solution for a mathematical mind. And yet, he stood there, a bloodied Harry Potter lying unconscious at his feet. For the first time in his life, the Dark lord felt utterly lost. He couldn't fathom what to do. [TIME TRAVEL]
1. Part I - The Question

**A Logical Mind**

 **Summary:**

Lord Voldemort always congratulated himself to be the most logical being he ever met in his whole life. He always found an answer to everything. A clear cut solution for a mathematical mind. And yet, he stood there, a bloodied Harry Potter lying unconscious at his feet. For the first time in his life, the Dark lord felt utterly lost. He couldn't fathom _what to do._ [TIME TRAVEL]

If every thing goes according to my plan, there will be four parts: the question; the answer; the consequences; the end.

Little warning: english is not my mother tongue - I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

* * *

 **A Logical Mind**

 **PART I - The Question** **  
**

 **What to do?**

* * *

Lord Voldemort was known to be a cold-blooded, cruel, ruthless wizard.

A Dark Lord, so dark that he would not even feel the shadow of a doubt when killing, nor regret when torturing. Let alone feel any kind of pity. Lord Voldemort was known to be insane, dangerous. _Inhumane_.

To his opponents, at least.

Lord Voldemort always congratulated himself to be the most logical being he ever met in his whole life. He never let his mind be clouded by some irrational thoughts. Unlike his foes and followers, he never experienced any dilemma since he reached adulthood. Whenever a problem arose, he would thoroughly weigh all possible solutions and outcomes in the formidable equation that was his conquest of the wizarding world. His genius brain would provide the best way to deal with the situation. He always found an answer to everything. A clear cut solution for a mathematical mind. Logic and strategy were what made him the greatest Dark Lord of the century, beside a tremendous amount of power, of course.

The Dark Lord smiled madly. Some were calling him an inhuman and cruel wizard, but he knew better. His mental faculties allowed him to think without bothering with pointless feelings. His lack of emotions made him not inhuman but logical. His cruelty was the best way to achieve his goals. Being feared by foes and followers alike meant being powerful. And power meant everything.

Voldemort looked at his wand resting on his large, refined desk. Fear... He could almost taste the sweetness of it. A year after the wizarding world had discovered his return, he inspired as much fear as during his first rise. Dumbledore's death had been a blow to their confidence. The sight of their Savior - an absurdly small teen with wide eyes full of terror - during the burial of the old fool just crashed any surviving hope. Too frail to inspire faith. An ocean of resignation and fear was what was left. In a few minutes, fear would melt into terror. He was relishing it.

Voldemort grabbed his wand and a scroll of paper. A complicated set of runes was running through the whole scroll, drawing a complex pattern. Terror was coming, he thought, before tapping softly the middle of the scroll with the tip of his wand. A wave of magic illuminated the runes one by one. A last hiss – _Voldemort_ \- and the scroll was suddenly on fire. Within a few seconds, the scroll was nothing but ashes. Sweet terror. Fear of a name increase the fear of the thing itself, said the old fool. How true he was. A manic laugh escaped the dark lord's lipless mouth.

The Taboo was in place.

* * *

Harry Potter was known to be the Savior of the light. A kind, fair, yet powerful light wizard. It was said that is magical abilities were beyond the great Dumbledore himself. His story was written in thirteen different history books, five focusing only on his persona. Young witches and wizards had been falling asleep, every night in the last decade, on the soft sound of theirs mothers voice: " Once upon a time, a baby named Harry Potter saved us of a bad wizard who must not named ...". They all dreamed of the very same thing: going to Hogwarts and meet their hero.

Oblivious to his fame, Harry Potter arrived on a beautiful day of september in Hogwarts. He was small. Smaller than every other first year, with eyes too big for his face. No one really noticed it. They were too busy trying to catch a glimpse of the infamous scar. After a few months observing his every move, the nervous excitation was gone. The students started to realize that Harry Potter, beside a very strange scar on his forehead, was an average first year. He showed no extraordinary skills during class, nor in the corridors or the common room. He was timid, introvert – he only had two friends - and he was small. Nothing more. Disappointed, they didn't bothered with him until the end of the year.

Suddenly, he ended up at the infirmary. Rumors started to build in the common rooms: "Have you heard?" "He faced the ghost of He-who-must-not-be-named - " "My brother said he summoned a giant lion -" " - a fire phoenix - " "- two-meter long sword in the heart of the beast - " "He banished the ghost forever - " " I heard he is glowing due to his power -".

The boy-who-lived was released from the care of the nurse, just on time to join them for their last meal in school. He entered in the Great Hall, almost _hiding_ between the know-it-all and his redhead friend. No glowing savior, no fire phoenix on his shoulder. No confidence. The small boy was obviously nervous. He kept looking back, as if he was _afraid_ that someone was following him. He was no hero.

During his second year however, Harry Potter showed his first unique gift. The epitome of the light could speak the language of Devil himself, he was a parsel. He was no hero and had dark abilities. It was not acceptable. Unconsciously betrayed, the students wanted to avenge their lost hope of a marvelous Harry Potter. The hate began. People were petrified wherever he was. Rumors, once again, spread in the school. If he was not a gryffondor warrior, then it should be him. The heir of Slytherin. The boy never defended himself. He would stare at the floor, and silently leave to his dorm. He looked even smaller.

Eventually, the petrifications stopped. No one knew what happened nor why it was safe again to be in the school, but Dumbledore told so. With no reason to fear the boy-who-lived, the hate slowly faded. After all, no one was afraid of a thirteen years old teen fainting in front of a Dementor. His third year went by with no major gossip, until the Triwizard tournament.

Harry Potter was selected as a champion for Hogwarts. How could this happen? He was no more than an average fourth year. How could he compete against the best students of Europe? Hate flared again. He was cheating. He was just an attention-seeker, always trying to get more fame and money. He had no moral. He would loose. Somehow, he survived the two first task. After his flight in a dragon den, he earned a bit more respect. He was still a small boy with huge green eyes ringed with fatigue, but maybe there was more than meet the eyes.

When he returned from Merlin knows where, with Cedric's corpse, claiming that the Dark Lord had returned, no one knew how to react. Afraid, most of the students followed the Prophet. Hate is difficult habit to forget, and they despised him for so long it was easy to continue. So they hated him, called him a liar, an attention-seeker. No one believed him.

When Voldemort was seen in the Ministry, they couldn't deny it anymore. He-who-must-not-be-named was back. For real. And Harry Potter had faced him, and was still alive. He had to have something special to survive, they said. He had to, otherwise who would save them?

With a renewed respect, they observed him going through his sixth year in Hogwarts. He survived to the killing curse aged one, after all. And he won the Triwizard tournament aged fourteen. That was proof of extraordinary skills. He was no longer timid nor introvert but a mature wizard , they said. He was small, but his big eyes were radiating power, they said. He looked constantly tired because Dumbledore was training him at night, they said. He was the One, the Savior, they said. _He had to_.

And then, Dumbledore was murdered. Their shattered hope focused even more on the Boy-who-lived. He was their last hope. They all went to the burial, mourning the Director. Harry Potter was there as well. His big eyes were full of barely contained tears. His whole body was screaming grief and fear. He appeared so vulnerable, so _small_. Too frail to inspire faith. Reality hit them hard.

He was no hero. They were at the Dark Lord's mercy. _Alone_.

* * *

Harry Potter was sitting on a swing. He was back in Privet Drive for the summer, once again. He was staring in front of him, oblivious to his surroundings. Deep in his thought, he was going back and forth, slowly.

He snorted.

The wizarding world just realized he was no hero, but he knew better. He never was one. They always were on their own. He remembered very well the rumors, the whispers in his back. They feared him, hated him, worshipped him before realizing he was no more than a human being. No hero, no Dark Lord in training, just a boy terrified in an hostile world.

Yes, he thought, he was _terrified_. He had always been. His first year, he spent most of his time believing that Snape was going to kill him. Or that he would be expelled and had to go back to the Dursley again. After the stone incident, he couldn't sleep properly for months. Every time he heard a faint sound, a cracking door, he was sure it was Voldemort's spirit getting his revenge, ready to take his life. As if this constant fear was not enough, he lived in a school where people were petrified for no reason. And he had to face a Basilisk and a young Voldemort. In addition of a spirit, Harry was now afraid of every single book he touched. Voldemort was there, lurking in the shadows, awaiting its time.

It finally happened. His return was the most traumatic moment in Harry's life. He remembered the terror he felt, being tied to a gravestone, witnessing the rebirth of his worst nightmare. The snake-like face emerging from the cauldron, staring at him with so much hate.

His death had no nose and red eyes.

Harry couldn't understand how he escaped that night. Nor could he understand how he survived without doing any panic attack during his fifth year. Fifth year, the grand finale of terror. Sirius' death hit him hard. Guilt and grief won over panic for a few moments before he heard it. The Prophecy of his own downfall. Each word was carved in his brain, constant reminder of his fate. He would be killed by a Dark Lord. How could he beat him? He had no hidden power, no weapon. He was just a sixteen years old wizard trying to survive. He was no hero.

One could think Harry was getting use to feel unsafe But he wasn't. Every threat was mining him. He could feel his mental barriers growing thinner every sleep-deprived night. The prophecy broke him beyond repair.

Too much terror for one mind to bear.

Harry didn't understand why and how he was still alive, one year after this revelation. But he knew one thing for sure: the Dark Lord would hunt him down. He would suffer, he would die. _Soon_.

Suddenly, two hands pushed Harry in his back.

He fell from the swing.

His left cheek hit the ground in a loud thump. Part of his glasses broke. Tiny pieces of glass entered his skin and his eye. So much pain.

"Little Potter is bleeding" said a happy voice.

Death Eater? Was he cornered? Harry panicked. No! He didn't want to die. He didn't want to face the Dark Lord. He would be tortured. Not the snake face. A wave of terror rushed through his veins. An outburst of pure magic left his body, propelling his attacker a few meters backward.

The park was silent again. Harry could hear his heart beating furiously in his chest. His attacker must have been knocked out by the outburst. He cautiously turned his head, trying to ignore the broken glass in his face. He focused painfully on the scene in front of him.

Through what was left of his glasses, he could see a blurry Dudley lying on a rocking horse. Harry gasped. He could see the head of the horse emerging from his cousin's body. Impaled by a rocking horse. He was dead.

Harry stared at the lifeless body for a long time, too numb to understand what happened.

A nervous laugh escaped his lips.

He would die soon. Not at the hand of Voldemort, no. _Vernon_ was going to kill him first.

* * *

The Dark Lord felt a strange tickle behind his navel. Surprised, he wondered what was that sensation but the weird feeling was gone before he could identify it. Quickly dismissing it, Voldemort focused on the conversation once more. A few seconds later, the tickle returned, stronger. What was that? He wondered. The tickle became somewhat stronger. Suddenly, the Dark Lord felt a familiar hook behind his navel, and everything around him became blurry.

Shortly his surroundings became clear again. Lord Voldemort slowly glanced around him, his – so brilliant - mind racing to understand what _the hell_ just happened.

The most feared wizard of Britain was now in a ridiculously ordinary muggle living-room. On his left, beside a few burning candles, was what appeared to be a huge coffin. The lid was up, revealing the dead body of a fat young man. A thin woman was sitting next to the coffin, a loving hand resting on the chest of the corpse. She seemed to be frozen by fear. Voldemort grinned, his snake-like face moving to reveal a forked tongue, tasting the panic that was building in her. The woman paled even more. She was on the verge of fainting. Voldemort suppressed a cold laugh. Useless muggle. So easy to impress. He turned around, his brain still trying to grasp what was happening. His eyes widened.

A huge man, twice as old and twice as fat as the dead one, was holding a baseball bat in the air, ready to strike. His face was distorted by a fury that the Dark Lord never witnessed before. Pure hatred. He was perfectly still, looking at him with defiant fear. Blood was dripping from the bat. Deafening thumps against a perfectly clean floor. In his porcine eyes, Voldemort could see a vicious battle between hate and fear. Hate was winning, Voldemort realized. He couldn't let that happen. A drop of blood lazily found its way at the end of the bat and fell. A soundless stunner hit human pig before the drop could attain the floor. A smirk appeared on Voldemort's face. Beside his brilliant mental faculties, Lord Voldemort was very proud that no one could catch him off guard. _Ever._ He was way too fast.

"Voldemort - "

It was no more than a whisper, but the Dark Lord froze, his eyes immediately at the feet of the stunned man. A boy was on the floor, lying in a puddle of blood. He was a total mess. A bloody one. Voldemort looked successively at the baseball bat, still in the muggle's hand, and at the boy. He wondered how it was possible to do so much damage on a body with a mere bat and no magic but quickly dismissed that thought. The boy was calling him. Suddenly, he understood the nagging sensation and the transportation: the Taboo had been transgressed.

"V-Voldemort -"

The boy's voice was soft, full of hope. Voldemort could _feel_ something cold moving in his guts. The boy tried to lift his head up and let a painful sound escape his swollen lips. One of his eye couldn't open, but the other one was staring intently at the Dark Lord. Voldemort let out a gasp. This face, this green eyes... No. It couldn't be.

"I beg you... Kill me. I... I beg you - "

The whisper was no more. The boy was now unconscious in a puddle of blood. His own blood. The Dark Lord stared at him, unable to understand. Harry Potter had begged him. He wanted to die. He had begged him for death.

Voldemort was proud to never be caught off guard, and to have a solution for everything, thanks to his logical mind.

And yet, he stood there, in the middle of a muggle living-room, a bloodied Harry Potter lying unconscious at his feet.

For the first time in his life, the Dark lord felt utterly lost.

He couldn't fathom _what to do_.

* * *

 **End of Part I - The question.**

I'm looking for a Beta: if you are interested, please let me know!


	2. Part II - The answers

**A Logical Mind**

 **Summary: **

Lord Voldemort always congratulated himself to be the most logical being he ever met in his whole life. He always found an answer to everything. A clear cut solution for a mathematical mind. And yet, he stood there, a bloodied Harry Potter lying unconscious at his feet. For the first time in his life, the Dark lord felt utterly lost. He couldn't fathom _what to do._ [TIME TRAVEL]

 **Part I - The question: What to do?** Voldemort put the Taboo in place. Harry caused the death of Dudley thinking he was attacked by Death Eaters. Vernon beated Harry with a baseball bat. Harry wished for Voldemort to be there so he could be finally killed. The Taboo bring Voldemort to Privet Drive. Voldemort stood there, a bloodied Harry Potter lying unconscious at his feet. For the first time in his life, the Dark lord felt utterly lost. He couldn't fathom _what to do._

* * *

 **A Logical Mind**

 **PART II - The Answers**

 **What he found.**

* * *

Voldemort stood in his study, his snake-like face lowered on the unconscious boy.

He didn't know how much time he had spent in the muggle house. When the doorbell had rung, he had done the first thing he could think of. He had grabbed Potter, and apparated away. He had taken him to his father's house in Little Hangleton. A familiar scenery he had welcomed. But once there, he had been at loss with the unconscious boy. He tried to ennervate him, but the brat had not woken up. The blows were too serious, he was in a magical coma. Voldemort would have to wait before he could talk to him.

The Dark Lord could feel his mind trying to figure out what happened in the boy's home.

Why was that fat muggle beating the Boy-who-lived? That had been a surprise. The Dark Lord was sure the boy would be put in a disgustingly loving light magic family. Somewhere where he was taken good care of, choked to death by countless hugs. Voldemort snorted. During his cursed years as a mere spirit, he had thought about his downfall numerous time. The nagging image of Harry Potter had plagued his mind, from the baby he once met to the growing child he imaged him to be. A child with a a happy smile glued to his face.

The happy smile had angered him to no end, endless taunt to remind him of his own failure. He had imagined every possible way he could come up with to rip this smile off. Including using his own nail to tear the guilty mouth away. Yes, he had enjoyed slowly planning how he would break into the boy's loving home. The despair he would induce had been comforting him. He wanted to make him cry, to make him beg for mercy. Every scenario he came up with ended up with a bloodied Harry Potter, asking for his death. Imagined words that soothed his anger. A sweet lullaby.

So Voldemort had waited. He awaited years before he could rise again. He had slowly build up his force. With the cold logic he was proud of, he had taken over the wizarding world. The last blow had been the death of the infuriating Dumbledore. He remembered the satisfaction he experienced when his followers reported the death. His plan was working. He relished in his success. The Death Eaters would terrorize Britain a few more months and then, he, Lord Voldemort, the most powerful and feared wizard of the century, would strike one last time. He would destroy their Savior.

But he had been stripped of his perfect revenge. Harry Potter had called him. And Voldemort had stood in front of a bloodied frail body. Harry Potter had called him and begged for his death. He had asked, seeking an end to his pain, exactly like Voldemort had imagined it would end. Remembering the teen's begging voice, the Dark Lord could _feel_ something cold moving in his guts. However, he could not bring himself to feel pleasure nor any kind of satisfaction. Yes, the Savior had been at his feet, ready to die. He had been _broken_. But Voldemort was not the one to broke him. A disgusting fat muggle had taken this pleasure away from him. Potter was not allowed to take his revenge from him. He could not let himself be broken by someone else. Why was that fat muggle beating the Boy-who-lived? Why had Potter begged to be killed?

Bloody hell, _why didn't he kill him_?

Curious, Voldemort lowered his gaze on the unconscious body laying in front of him. A pool of blood was forming, staining the carpet. He muttered a spell, closing the wounds and banishing the blood. He may have not killed him yet, but he would not allow the brat to ruin his furnitures.

The Dark lord sighed, frustrated. He had been obsessed with the destruction of Harry Potter for years, but his carefully planned revenge had been taken away from him. It was _logical_ to be a bit unsettled by the events. After all, he had planned to kill Harry Potter since he first heard the prophecy, fifteen years ago. A prophecy he did not even know in its entirety. Voldemort hated not knowing. Since the fatal moment when he lost his body, he had regretted his harsh move. He should have known better. He should have acted only once he knew the full extent of the prophecy. Maybe his first downfall could have been avoided... But now it was too late to feel sorry. His failure had taught him to know everything before going after a potential enemy, wand in hand, ready to strike. He should not kill Harry Potter without knowing the prophecy first. He would not risk it.

His eyes were still focused on the teen. The blood was banished, but his face was still a bruised, swollen mess. He looked nothing like the proud Harry Potter he had faced the last time, in the Department of Mysteries. A petulant child that had broken the only possibility to know what fate awaited them, Voldemort thought darkly. But maybe it was not the only way. Maybe the boy overheard something when he crashed the orbs on the floor. Maybe...maybe the boy knew the full prophecy.

A cold chuckle escaped Voldemort's lipless mouth. There was a reason he did not kill the brat on sight, after all. He was the key to understand it all. Voldemort grinned madly. He would heal the boy until his body would be resilient enough to perform legilmency. And then he would finally know the full prophecy and act upon it.

 _That was the logical thing to do._

* * *

Harry awoke on a rare beautiful day of october. The first thing he felt was the warm caress of the sun on his face. Breathing slowly, deeply, he did not move nor open his eyes, savoring the calmness of the moment. He let the minutes - or was it hours? - flow by. The air was a bit chilly, tingling his nose pleasantly. It felt like heaven.

And if death was heaven, Harry was relieved to finally be free of the hell of the living.

Harry opened carefully an eye then the other. He was expecting a blinding light, or a few familiar faces. His parents, Sirius, maybe even Dumbledore. The sight of an empty room surprised him. Was that normal to be welcomed to paradise by a view on a plain grey wall? His eyes caught a movement on his left. The wind was agitating curtains in front of a huge window, breaking the soft caress of the sun on his face every now and then.

For the first time he could remember, Harry was feeling no fear. Every inch of his body was relaxed. It was reminding him a bit of that one time when the nurse gave him a pain killer potion and he drank a bit too much out of the bottle. This soothing feeling was awesome. It was like if he was floating in his bed. Harry wanted to grin, but it felt like if it was taking too much energy out of him. He closed his eyes instead, enjoying the moment. It was like being high, Harry thought, thinking about Dudley's description of smoking weed.

Dudley... who was dead.

Memories hit him hard. He remembered sulking on the swing, then the panic, the outburst of pure magic. He remembered the sight of Dudley, impaled on a rocking horse. He remembered the wrath of his uncle. Vernon and his baseball bat... yes, Harry could remember the pain he felt after each blow. He could remember the sound of his bones cracking under the bat, and the pain - so much pain. He could remember his last thought as he could feel his consciousness slipping away. He wanted to finally die, to escape the pain and the endless fear of dying. It was not rational. But maybe that was normal to not think logically when sinking in a world of pain, Harry thought. It was maybe even normal to start to call for his worst fear, the one who vowed to kill him. Harry remembered how he called Voldemort, how he begged to grace him with a quick death - _to make the pain stop_. Why did he think Voldemort would appear, he was not sure anymore. Between the blows, it seemed to be a good idea. And it worked.

The warm caress of the sun suddenly left his face. Harry opened slowly his eyes. In front of him stood Voldemort.

His murderer. His _savior_. His death with no nose and red eyes.

For the first time in his life, Harry felt no fear at the sight of the snake like face. Instead a huge wave of gratefulness filled him. Maybe it was expected to see his murderer and to forgive him in the afterlife. Maybe it was not. Harry didn't care at the slightest. All he knew was that he was dead and that it was a relief. He even wanted to thank the Dark Lord for finally putting an end to all this nonsense but his lips never moved. They were weighing too much to obey his faltering will. So he just stared at him as long as his unresponsive body allowed him to.

Harry floated in his bed for a few minutes more, his big and thankful eyes on Voldemort, before drifting off into unconsciousness.

Death was too comfortable to stay awake.

* * *

With a swift movement of wrist, Voldemort transfigurated a chair, next to the bed. He sat, giving a dirty look at the now sleeping boy.

The boy's expression had stupefied him. Why on earth would Harry Potter look at him, _Lord Voldemort_ , with warm and thankful eyes? The mere thought of it disrupted him greatly. After all, he tried to kill the brat more time than he could - or wanted to - remember. Gratefulness was not a feeling that married well with vows of murder. Could it be that the boy had been hit too much and lost all memories of him? Somehow Voldemort felt a bit better. His logical mind however did not. If the memory loss would explain the lack of hate, it could not explain the lack of fear. Who wouldn't be terrified, waking up to a snake-like face with no nose and red eyes? No, amnesia was not a _rational_ answer. Voldemort felt disappointed.

Wait, what? Disappointement? Since when was he hoping for an amnesiac Harry Potter in his manor? Voldemort let out a frustrated sigh. Ever since he... collected the brat out of the muggle home, something was off. He had spent hours wondering why the boy had been beaten whithout any possible explanations. He usually had to make a few guess before understanding every riddle he was faced with. Cold logic was his strongest suit after all. But the scene in which he apparated just did _not_ make sense. The Dark Lord let out a frustrated sigh - again. He hated not knowing. He had watched the memory of that afternoon more time than he could remember, but there was no hidden clue to lead him to the truth. Instead every time he heard the broken voice begging for death he had this strange _feeling_ , like something cold was moving in his guts.

The Dark Lord had come up with the only logical explanation he could: he had been cursed. Maybe the brat knew about the taboo and had somehow found a way to use his own name against him? But if it was a trap then why was he being beaten? It made _no_ sense. For the first time in years, Voldemort felt helpess. His genius brain was failing him. Useless.

Maybe the curse was not only affecting his guts, Voldemort suddenly thought. Yes, maybe it was also messing up with his brain! That would explain his incapacity to come up with any explanations or plans regarding the boy. He needed to break into the brat's mind to understand what was the spell. Then he would find the countercurse. The prophecy would have to wait since then. He could not afford having is logical mind messed up with while dealing with his own fate.

The Boy-Who-Lived had been in a magical coma for more than a month. Even if his body was in a poor state after the beating, it had been too long to be normal. After all his life had not been in danger after the first night - thanks to magic. Voldemort was not the best mediwizard - who needs to heal when you want to kill?- but his basic knowledges of healing had been enough for him to take care of the boy.

 _To take care of Harry Potter,_ what a strange idea.

Voldemort did not take care of him, he merely saved him from a certain death. Not as an act of mercy, but to finally know the full prophecy. However, as the boy did not wake up from his coma, the Dark Lord had to wait. So he waited, his patience growing thinner and thinner with every day.

However today the boy had woken up. Voldemort could perform legilmency on him without risking to be trapped in the boy's mind.

The Dark Lord would wait no more. He would have _answers_.

He directed his wand on the sleeping boy.

"Legilimens!" he shouted.

* * *

Harry Potter had never been good at occluding his mind. Snape's lessons had been a disaster and he never tried on his own afterwards. Warned by his Death Eater, Voldemort was expecting a weak resistence. However what he found let him stunned.

A wild tornado of memories attacked him. Some, the most recent ones, were colorful, others dull, some, the oldest, were completely grey. They were all mixed, following no logic, hitting him in their endless race. Voldemort summoned his magic and put a wandless shield around him. Feeding the shield constantly was exhausting. He would not be able to stay in the boy's mind for long. Losing no time, he scanned the scene before him.

It was like the structure of Potter's mind, his will and rationality, had completely disappared, leaving the memories swirling around.

A golden filament took the Drak Lord's attention. It was brighter than the others. It should be the last memory of the boy. Voldemort took it cautiously and went through the few minutes of pure bliss the Boy who Lived experienced when he woke earlier that day. Happiness and relief were omnipresent. What atonished Voldemort the most was the lack of ill feelings toward him. The boy's eyes had not lied. He was thankful. He was thankful because he thought he was _dead_. That made no sense.

When the Dark Lord heard Potter inner comment about being high, he understood. He had given too much healing potions to the boy. It could explain the confusion and the debilitating happiness the brat experienced. Maybe it was the cause of the broken mind too. It was unheard of but not impossible. However Voldemort did not delve on that thought. The brat was remembering something.

He felt raw _fear_. Then he was surrounded by overpowering wild magic.

An image of a fat young man impaled on a rocking horse flashed in front of the Dark Lord's eyes.

 _Grief, terror,_ _pain_.

And then, _relief_.

In the memory, his alter ego just entered the room. The inner voice was whispering.

"Thank you. Thank you for killing me."

* * *

Voldemort let the filament go. He could _feel_ something moving in his guts again. Cold. Like a snake. What was that sensation? How did the brat cursed him? What for? His shield was still in place, his magic still strong despite the effort. It was not weakening him. Then what was it for? Why ? Why did the brat think he was dead? Why did he bloody thank _him_?

The snake moved again. Voldemort felt physically ill.

Anger was building inside him. He was Lord Voldemort. He could not be cursed by a mere teenager. He could not let that happen, he had to know what was going on. He had to search in the brat's mind for an answer. Anger motivated him in his desperate search. Without following any logic, he grabbed a handful of filaments, and sunk inside the memories.

* * *

 _The fat Uncle - fear._

 _Astronomy tower, a star, Sirius? - grief ._

 _A cupboard, endless nights - loneliness, despair._

 _A disembodied spirit - fear._

 _A basilisk - panic._

 _The cemetery - terror._

 _A rocking horse, a baseball bat - pain._

 _He was alone._

 _Alone, surrounded by red eyes._

 _Fear, fear, fear, FEAR._

* * *

Voldemort escaped the boy's mind, nauseous. He stayed in there too long and used too much magic. His head was hurting. However, Voldemort did not pay attention to the pain. The cold snake was there, moving in his guts.

So much panic and despair. So much fear. Why did Voldemort never realize before how much terror he inspired in the Boy-who-lived? The proud brat was a mask, hiding the small boy with too big eyes, crumbling under the fear. Instead of the cold joy he was expecting, the Dark Lord felt a bitter taste filling his mouth.

The snake was ferosciously dancing in his stomach.

Voldemort had seen the outburst of accidental magic, the death of the cousin, impaled by a rocking horse. He had felt every blows from the furious fat uncle. He had felt the terror, then the despair. And then a foolish hope. The hope to die. If there was a plot, it had not been pulled by Potter who seemed too unaware, too despaired to try something that bold. Tired of of the ever-present fear, the boy genuinely wanted to die.

The snake was moving like the devil himself, as if he wanted to escape his jail made of flesh.

Harry Potter wanted to die because he was too afraid of the Dark Lord. Harry Potter was broken because of _him_.

The spasms in his guts increased.

In the silent room, Voldemort could still hear a ghostly reverberation.

"Thank you for killing me."

The snake jolted a last time.

Voldemort vomited.

* * *

It has been a few days since his visit in the boy's mind. The snake was calm again, but the uneasiness never left Voldemort. He could swear that the animal was still there, asleep, wheighing like a cold stone on his guts. Being physically ill had been a strong blow. His snake like body was supposed to be immune to sickness. Whatever was happening to him was serious enough to break a powerful dark art ritual. And that worried Voldemort beyond words.

When the sun was up, the Dark Lord was able to pretend that nothing disturbated him. But in the silence of the nights, the worry increased to animal fear. Nightmares plagued him. Scenes from the boy's memories. So much fear. Voldemort could not distinguish between his own feelings and the one he experienced in Potter's mind. But he could feel the pressure. Sleep-deprived and afraid, the Dark Lord was slowly breaking.

But Voldemort was not one to break without a fight. He was slowly breaking? Then he had to find a cure before that happened. That was the first logical step. He knew that the boy was not directly behind his current state. But he could not deny that it started when he collected the beaten teen. There was a connection somewhere, and that was his only trail. He would have to search in the boy's memories again, to find new evidences, solid evidences, as a base to a rational solution. Voldemort had to legilimens him again, even if he was afraid to do so, no that he admitted it. It was the only rational way to act.

Putting aside his weird feelings, Voldemort opened the door and entered the room. The boy was still sleeping. Much to the Dark Lord's relief, the snake seemed asleep as well. He did not want to be ill again. How could he concentrate if he was throwing up? Chasing that thought, Voldemort transfigured his usual chair out of thin air and took place. Breathing deeply, he pointed his wand on the sleeping form and said the incantation.

This time, he put his wandless shield before the tornado of memories could catch him. Potter's mindscape seemed even more chaotic than the first time. How could he find the relevent memory in the thousands of filaments that were moving wildly in the endless space? The task seemed impossible. However, Voldemort was a genius, and genius did not tolerate impossible as an answer. Why not try to summon the memories related to him? He had never tried it before, but it could work. Focusing on his goal, Voldemort held out his hand and let his magic escape.

Nothing seemed to happen, but then, one by one, hundreds of filaments flew right before him. Voldemort smirked coldly. His brain was still working, after all. However, despite this brilliant idea, he still had hundreds of memories in front of him. A method was necessary. He would go from the vivid ones, the most recents, to the most greyish one, the oldest. Dismissing the first two filaments - the awakening, and the beating - as he already saw it, Voldemort took the third filament, and sunk in the memory.

Potter and Dumbledore were in a cave. Not in any cave, _his_ cave.

They were hunting his horcruxes.

Voldemort felt panic rise in his chest. If they knew about the cave and the slytherin medaillon, what else did they knew? Had they already destroyed the others? Was he _mortal_ again? He had to know. He went through the others memories, unable to process what he was seeing. Terror was clouding his judgement. The succession of images kept going, until the first encounter about horcruxes between Potter and Dumbledore. Unable to stay more in the boy's mind, Voldemort released his spell and fled the hauting memories.

Voldemort fell back on his chair, panting.

The two first horcruxes he had created, cherished even, the ring and the diary, were _gone_.

No, he refused to believe it. _It was not possible_.

"No, it's not possible."

Voldemort flinched. It was not his voice that expressed his own thoughts. Hi gaze fell on the boy in front of him. Harry Potter was awake, and was staring at him in disbelief.

"No, no, no!" the boy's voice was hoarse and weak. " It can not be. This is not real! No... I'm not alive, this is not real."

Anger took over panic. This insolent _brat_ had destroyed his horcruxes. He had the power to make him mortal again. He had the knowledge of his horcruxes. He should die painfully. For the second time of the evening, Voldemort pointed his wand on the boy, ready to speak the two fatal words.

"I... I beg you... Kill me..."

The supplication resonated in the room and in the Dark Lord's ear. Huge green eyes were imploring him to put an end to the suffering. He took a deep breath, but the words never came.

Voldemort could feel something cold moving his guts.

 _The snake was awake._

"Voldemort... I beg you... Kill me... please..."

As an aswer to the plea, the Dark Lord did the only thing he could think of.

He fled.

* * *

 **End of Part II - The Answers**

 _It was incredibely hard to write. I hope the result is okay?_

 _I'm still searching for a beta, if anyone is interested._


	3. Part II bis - The Solution

**Summary: **

Lord Voldemort always congratulated himself to be the most logical being he ever met in his whole life. He always found an answer to everything. A clear cut solution for a mathematical mind. And yet, he stood there, a bloodied Harry Potter lying unconscious at his feet. For the first time in his life, the Dark lord felt utterly lost. He couldn't fathom _what to do._ [TIME TRAVEL]

 **Part I - The question: What to do?** Voldemort put the Taboo in place. Harry caused the death of Dudley thinking he was attacked by Death Eaters. Vernon beated Harry with a baseball bat. Harry wished for Voldemort to be there so he could be finally killed. The Taboo bring Voldemort to Privet Drive. Voldemort stood there, a bloodied Harry Potter lying unconscious at his feet. For the first time in his life, the Dark lord felt utterly lost. He couldn't fathom _what to do._

 **Part II - The answers: what he found:** convinced that Harry cursed him to affect his health and his - genius - brain, Voldemort searched through Harry's memories for the curse used. He didn't find any curse but discovered that Harry is completely broken by the pressure and the fear. He also stumbled across the memories of the Horcruxes hunting of 6th year and realized that the BWL know how to kill him. Out of anger, he wanted to kill him, but hearing the teen begging, he could not bring himself to do it and fled.

* * *

 **A Logical Mind**

 **PART II bis - The Solution  
**

 **What he did.**

* * *

 _Anger took over panic. This insolent brat had destroyed his horcruxes. He had the power to make him mortal again. He had the knowledge of his horcruxes. He should die painfully. For the second time of the evening, Voldemort pointed his wand on the boy, ready to speak the two fatal words._

 _"I... I beg you... Kill me..."_

 _The supplication resonated in the room and in the Dark Lord's ear. Huge green eyes were imploring him to put an end to the suffering. He took a deep breath, but the words never came._

 _Voldemort could feel something cold moving his guts._

 _The snake was awake._

 _"Voldemort... I beg you... Kill me... please..."_

 _As an answer to the plea, the Dark Lord did the only thing he could think of._

 _He fled_.

* * *

In the silent despair of a cold room, Harry felt his world collapse on him.

The nightmare was not finished. He was still alive, prisoner of Voldemort.

Harry screamed. He screamed until his voice was horse. When his throat was not able to produce any more sound, Harry began to cry.

Why had the Dark Lord not killed him? He had been at his mercy, he had begged for death. For years, Voldemort had plagued his dreams with vows of painful murder, description of endless torture. A lot of blood, a lot of pain, and a smile ripped out of his face. It may have been only nightmares and not actual visions, but Harry was certain that Voldemort had similar fantasies.

Harry had been sure that Voldemort would kill him on sight after seeing him completely broken by his uncle. What fun is there in torturing someone who had already lost everything? But no, the Dark Lord had shown mercy. He even healed him. Why? Was it an odd plot, somewhere between the lines of heal your enemy to better torture him later? Harry was not sure he wanted to know. Even if there was a plan to all this nonsense, it would not last. Harry had been deprived of his slumber by the frantic search of Voldemort in his mind. He had witnessed the rage slowly building in the Dark Lord, and the raw fear he radiated.

How well could a man obsessed by immortality take the new that his greatest enemies knew the way to his downfall? Harry shivered. He was the captive of an angry, murderous Dark Lord. Torture awaited him, then a slow, horrible death. He was doomed.

Strangely enough, Harry noted, he was not paralyzed by fear. Instead of being frightened, the Boy Who Lived felt empty, detached from the nightmare that was his emotions. His mind was clear. Under the blows of Vernon, Harry already accepted that death would free him of the living hell that was the prison of his life. Fear, grief, guilt, everything would go away.

Harry welcomed death. He just had to find a way to avoid torture.

* * *

Voldemort stormed through his study, the inhumane screams from the boy reverberating in his wake.

He let himself fall in his chair and took his bald head in his hands. Now was not the moment to let whatever curse the boy used on him rule his action. He had to sort this mess rationally. Ignoring the moving snake in his guts, the Dark Lord inspired deeply, released his breath through his lipless mouth, and let his cold logic take over the storm that was raging inside him.

Two of his horcruxes had been destroyed. From the memories he saw, only Dumbledore, the brat, and to a certain extent Slughorn, were aware of the existence of his horcruxes. With Dumbledore dead, the risk was less important. Slughorn was not an immediate threat either. The potion man had been too much of a coward to share his memory with the boy. Without the felix felicis potion, he would have carried the secret of Tom Jedusor's morbid interest in his afterlife.

What disrupted Voldemort was his reaction to the boy. After discovering the treacherous memories, he had been ready to strike, to kill the boy once for all. How many times did he dream of that cherished moment when he would finally be able to change the petulant brat in a small decaying corpse? But no, once again, the brat escaped his fate. Voldemort had not been able to utter the two fatal words. The boy's plea made him mute.

His brain was facing the truth: he had not been able to kill the brat. He felt exposed, vulnerable. Closing his eyes, the Dark Lord could see the two brilliant green orbs. In the distance, he could hear the boy's soft whimpers. The animal in his guts was dancing again.

No, he was Lord Voldemort, the greatest dark wizard of the century. A Dark Lord, so dark that he would not even feel the shadow of a doubt when killing, nor regret when torturing. He should kill a few meaningless preys, and then, he would come back, kill the brat once for all, and make another horcrux out of his death. That was the logical thing to do.

A slow maniac smile bloomed on his snake like face. He released his head, and stood, tall and proud. He would not let the brat mess with his sanity. Like always, the sight of blood and the music of screams would appease him.

Full of confidence, he threw some powder in the fireplace.

" Malfoy Manor! "

His voice resonated in the study like swords clashing against each other.

* * *

Charity Burbage was the proud Muggle Studies teacher of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. From the earliest age, she had been fascinated by the muggles and how they were living - quite well in her opinion - without any magic. So when her application for the job had been accepted, she had hugged her mom tightly, thanking her for her never ending support. Little did she know that she would one day curse her own luck.

It all started by this weird feeling. Like if someone was following her. She dismissed it. Then came the letters. The threats were vague in the beginning but got bolder every passing day. Charity did not stop to teach nor to publish her opinions of the muggles in the Daily Prophet. If she was to be paranoid, who else would try to defend the muggles in this time of need? Now however, she had another opinion on the matter. What was an article against her own life? Not much, really.

Tears began to fall on her cheeks as she, once again, let her eyes map the tiny cell she was in. A door made of rusty bars. Uneven walls covered with mould. Far left lied something looking like a skull. She was afraid, terrified even. Why would the Death Eaters keep her alive? Was it to make an example out of her, a known muggle lover?

A low hiss could be heard and the door cracked open. Lord Voldemort was standing in the door frame, his snake like face distorted by a soft smile.

"Miss Burbage." The Dark Lord hissed dangerously, raising his wand. "How... convenient."

Charity fainted.

A cold chuckle escaped the Dark Lord lipless mouth. The sweetness of the fear he inspired was almost overpowering the cold and moving feeling in his gut. Wand raised, he relished in the cherished feeling a few more seconds. But he knew he was not there to cause fear, regardless of the his fondness. He came to spread death. Reluctantly, he whispered the lethal curse.

"Avada Kedavra."

Nothing happened. No green light, no dead body. Charity Burbage was still alive, however unconscious. Voldemort was not pleased. He had been able to master the killing curse since the first time he cast it, on his father, as a sixteen year old teenager. How could he fail now?

"Avada Kedavra!" he said, more intently.

Still nothing.

"Avada Kedavra! AVADA KEDAVRA!" He shouted.

In the tiny cell covered with mould, no green lights flashed.

Breathing heavily, the Dark Lord leaned on the door frame. The snake in his guts was restless. Voldemort could feel a sour taste invading his mouth. He slumped against the door a bit more. The greatest dark wizard of the century feeling physically ill at the idea of killing, unable to perform the tiny act of magic needed... Unable to kill, unable to defend himself... Never before did he feel so _vulnerable_ , so frail.

Slowly, he exited the cell, leaving the unconscious teacher behind. He would go back to Little Hangleton. He would be safe there, with no one to witness his vulnerability. He was no fool: was he to show a weakness in front of them, he knew his Death Eater would not disregard the opportunity to overthrow him. He would find a way to regain his usual cold self there, hidden from the world.

He would kill again.

* * *

Back in his study, Voldemort methodically poured himself a glass of firewhisky. He slumped in his chair and took large sips out of his glass. The hot liquid in his throat was oddly reassuring, clouding the insidious uneasiness. It seemed to calm the cold animal in his guts too. He poured himself another glass, his eyes lost in the midst of the fire roaring in the fireplace.

A huge, deadly snake entered the room,

"Massster" she hissed.

"My faithful Nagini" Voldemort greeted her and extended a hand to pet the snake's head.

"Massster.. the boy's room... It ssmells like blood."

Voldemort sprung from his chair and run to the room.

His glass of firewhisky was left on the desk, forgotten.

The room was still and dark. A soft breath could be heard. If not for the overpowering smell of blood, Voldemort could swear the boy was sleeping. A weird sensation engulfed him. Was it... worry? Dismissing that thought, the Dark Lord summoned a light at the tip of his wand.

Harry Potter was lying on the bed, in front of him. His face was as white as the sheets, if not for the blood stains around his mouth. He was holding his hands close to his bloodied chest. One of his wrist, the one held closer to his body, was teared apart. Blood was spilling from the open wound. The sheets surrounding the boy were becoming a deep shade of red at an alarming rate. It took a few seconds for the Dark Lord to process what he was witnessing.

The boy had bitten his wrist in a desperate attempt to die. He was trying to kill himself.

The cold, moving feeling was back, stronger than ever. Voldemort hurried at the side of the boy and started to mutter incantations after incantations, in the vain hope to retain the fleeting life.

After a few hours - or was it a few minutes? - The Dark Lord stopped his frantic spelling. The wrist was healed, however barred by a teeth shaped scar. The boy would be weak for a few days, consequence of the blood loss, but he would live. Voldemort sighed, turned his back on the boy, thinking about the glass full of firewhisky waiting for him in the study. As he was at the door step, he heard a small, hoarse voice.

"Why... Why did you save me?"

The Dark Lord left the room, without any answer. In the study, he sit down in his chair and took the glass to his lipless mouth.

 _Why indeed?_

Voldemort did not know.

* * *

Harry was not sure how much time had passed since his arrival in Little Hangleton.

In the beginning, he had been afraid of torture. But it never came. Instead, when he tried to kill himself, Voldemort healed him and left, without a word. Harry was confused. He was left waiting for his painful downfall, wishing for death. The absence of human contact was slowly making him loose his sanity. As the days passed, Harry realized that maybe, physical torture had been replaced by another kind of torment: loneliness, helplessness. He was inescapably drowning in despair.

When Harry felt like he could not take it anymore, he tried to suffocate himself with the bed linen. However, the moment he felt out of air, Voldemort stormed in the room and released him from the deadly sheets of his own making. Harry asked why. Red eyes stared at him intently, but he got no answer. After making sure he was not injured, the Dark Lord left the boy, without any further word.

They settled in a very strange routine. Invariably, Harry, when despair was overpowering him, tried to off himself. Invariably, Voldemort would appear out of thin air to rescue him. The boy would ask him why he was being rescued, he would try to coax an answer out of the older one. Invariably, the Dark Lord would stay silent and leave. Once, Harry even tried to starve himself. But after two days, an house elf appeared along with his food and magically forced him to eat. Since then, an house elf was always attending to his meals. Harry did not complain much. Even if the house elf usually remained silent, he cherished the presence of another living being in his vicinity.

Harry knew he was being watched. Some kind of alarm had been set to alert Voldemort about his well-being. As his numerous failed attempts had proven, he could not kill himself. He could not save himself from the hell that was his own life. A miserable life, full of despair, terror and sorrow. He could not kill himself... But he could get killed. He just had to make the Dark Lord feel murderous. But how could he? Voldemort never graced him with his presence.

A loud pop interrupted his thoughts. A young house elf stand before him, a tray full of food in his hands. Harry took it absent-mindedly and began to eat under the watchful eyes of the elf. As he was chewing his peas, an idea struck Harry. The ghost of a smile played on his lips. Carefully, he sneaked the knife out of the tray.

"What are your orders, elf?" he asked.

"To make sure you eat, to make sure you don't kill yourself, Sir." the house Elf answered in a small voice.

Harry nodded. He had asked numerous time the same question, and invariably, the orders the elf had been given were the same. He continued to chew innocently. After a few more seconds he pushed the tray away.

"Harry Potter must eat, Sir." the house elf said.

But Harry did not care. Feeling bolder than ever he suddenly aimed the knife at his own chest, ready to stab.

"You will bring me to the Dark Lord, or I will kill myself."

Harry could see the panic in the elf eyes but he was inflexible. It was his last chance to finally be free from the hell of the living. He had to pay a visit to Voldemort. He had to anger him. He wanted to die. _He had to get killed_.

Suddenly, the elf snapped his fingers. In a loud pop, they were both gone.

* * *

It took a few days for Voldemort to solve the puzzle. A few days that felt more like never ending years. When the sun was up, the Dark Lord would indulge his drinking habit and calm both his anxiety and the snake living in his guts. However, at nights, the nightmares were vivid. The brat, lying dead, mocking him. His horcruxes, destroyed, mocking him. Terror, death. In the heart of the nights, he was nothing more than animal fear in a human shell, a snake in his guts, and a snake as a pet. The Dark Lord felt like slowly breaking.

His genius brain, slowed by the intake of alcohol, still found the reason for his strange vulnerability and his repeated life-saving interventions on the Boy Who Lived. To say that the Dark Lord was not happy with the answer would be an understatement, but he was relieved to finally have a logical explanations to this mess, even an unpleasant one.

By destroying his two first horcruxes, the brat and the old man had released part of his soul, part of his emotions that merged back with him. Voldemort remembered clearly which kind of emotions he logically left behind while creating the two horcruxes: _remorse_ first, and then _fear_.

Oh, he had thought about it at great length before going through that order but it had been the most logical solution. He had to get rid of remorse first, as he had no room for it in his way to greatness and immortality. Feeling remorses would have condemned him to a world of pain, and to mortality. Remorses, that were now back in his soul.

Remorses, that were forming a cold, moving _snake_ in his guts.

Voldemort knew he was slowly breaking. Not only from exhaustion, no. He was literally falling apart, feeling this foreign sensation in his guts. He could not understand it anymore, it was too alien for him after living decades without it.

However, his cold and logic brain could analyze the facts: the snake tended to be more active in the vicinity of the boy. Somehow, the Dark Lord felt remorses at the sight of the broken boy that was _Harry Potter_.

The thought in itself was unsettling. But what upset Voldemort the most was that he had to find a way to ease the remorses. He had to, otherwise the snake would break his other horcruxes, making him mortal again. An insidious and familiar fear seized him. Mortal... He could not let that happen. Whatever was the cost.

And Voldemort did search for a way to get rid of his remorse. No dark magic was more powerful than the horcrux-making spell. Nothing else could cage the emotions. But to make an horcrux, he had to kill someone, and that was a problem. Each time he tried the killing curse since the attempt on Burbage, he utterly failed. No green light, not even a jolt of magic or a sparkle. Nothing. The foreign sensation, remorse, prevented him to mean the death of his victim. He could not make an horcruxe to get rid of the unwanted snake. His genius brain however was not defeated. Another way to get rid of this infuriating emotion existed: Voldemort had to find a way to ease the remorses.

In order to save his own life, the Dark Lord had to fix a broken Harry Potter.

How ironical fate was. Voldemort chuckled darkly. After years of careful planning and daydreaming for the ultimate downfall of the brat, he had to fix him. But even if he was not pleased with that fact, the Dark Lord was feeling more calm and confident. There was a solution - even it it was one he abhorred. That was better than breaking apart without any remedy, without knowing what was happening.

Voldemort set all his logic, all his genius brain to work on how to fix Harry Potter. At first, he stubbornly stuck to his physical well-being, saving his life more than once. But the snake was still there, growing with each failed suicide attempt. Unable to sleep, Voldemort sneaked often in the boy's room and immersed himself with caution in the teen's mind. Every time he was greeted by the memories storm. Harry Potter's mind was completely broken.

In an almost clinical way, Voldemort started to go through the memories. After witnessing the beating by the fat man - which he understood was the uncle - he focused on the dull memories. He wanted to go back to the source of the despair, to understand when the boy's defense started to collapse, when did he start to fall in this deep and heavy depression. What he discovered was enough to make him want to kill those infuriating muggles on sight. Years of abuse, starving, slavery. In comparison, the orphanage seemed like a soft prison, where he could use wandless magic to defend himself. The snake was moving, uneasy. When Voldemort stumbled on the memory of a ridiculously happy toddler with a goofy grin on his face, in the tight embrace of a redhead woman, a uncontrollable laugh escaped his lipless mouth.

The evidences laid in front of him, nagging him. Harry Potter had been fated to break the day he was put with his abusive, disgusting muggles relatives. Harry Potter would beg for death, because, at the very beginning, he, Lord Voldemort, killed his parents.

The snake was dancing more ferociously than ever before. The laugh died on Voldemort mouth as he began to feel an excruciating pain.

He _had to_ fix this. Otherwise, death awaited him. He had to find a way, to go back, to prevent the death of the Potter's couple. In the wake of his action he would erase both his remorse, and the prophecy. The brat would not be marked as an equal. No scar, no prophecy. And he, Lord Voldemort, the greatest dark wizard of the century, would once again be free to rule. Yes, it was the perfect plan.

 _It was the logical thing to do._

* * *

Harry reappeared silently in the middle of a study, unable to believe in his luck.

Voldemort's back was facing him. He was singing a litany of spell in a low, soft voice. In a trance, he did not acknowledge the presence of the teen in the room. Fascinated by the waves of magic exuding from the tall body, Harry stared at the Dark Lord a long moment. Even if it was his original plan, he did not dare to interrupt the beautiful ritual unfolding in front of his eyes. It felt majestic, noble. Sacred even. Voldemort raised his hands singing louder. The magic was forming a colorful shield around his tall and dark figure. Slowly, the Dark Lord started to disappear.

Panic overcome Harry. He could not let the Dark Lord go away. Not now. Not when he was so close to get killed. Whatever ritual that was, he should mess it up, he should anger Voldemort. He should get killed. He wanted to get killed. It was his only chance.

Harry jumped in the colorful shield and clung to the black robes.

Magic engulfed him. He tightened his grip on the fabric. Everything went black; he was pressed very hard from all directions; he could not breath, there were iron bands tightening around his chest; his eyeballs were being forced back into his head; his ear-drums were being pushed deeper into his skull.

It stopped as suddenly as it began. The scenery around him had changed. He was now in a nursery.

"What the... Who are you?"

A female voice made him jump backwards. He turned around. A beautiful redhead woman was standing in front of him, wand raised, aiming at them.

In front of him stood Lily Potter.

Harry fainted.

* * *

 **End of Part II (bis) - The solution**

 _How do you like it so far?_

 _Still searching for a beta, btw._


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